


Not Entirely Untrue

by Runespoor



Category: DC Comics, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Identity Issues, M/M, OTP of DOOM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not Bruce laying the rules, he doesn't get to do that anymore, but it's Bruce dealing the hand. And Jason can play with that. Title from Batman 645.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Entirely Untrue

The shadow falls just at the right angle to dim the two shelves of laundry products, shielding Jason from the shop's blaring neon and neutralizing the saturated colors of the labels.

Maybe it's instinct, or maybe there's that quality to the shadow; Jason's hips tilt to the side as he turns, so the weight in his jacket's right pocket bumps present against his side. Jason's picking groceries, and his jacket's appropriate for that, but the downside is that it's also appropriate for meaningful shadows. The shadow itself is not--

It's a man in a checkered suit, with a stick dangling at the corner of his lips, smiling wide and friendly at him. Looking casual and confident, the kind of guy Jay wanted to grow up as, way back before he knew Dad was a loser; the kind of guy whose cool Jay forces himself to keep right now. Hooks his thumb in his pocket, where his knife _sears_ with readiness. And Jason's chest is already humming with gleeful tension, yet he doesn't have to fake the scowl.

 _Fuck you, I was grocery shopping. The fuck you want?_ And also, and Jason isn't going for his kris but he's not even trying to hide it, _What the **fuck**?_

 _Bruce, what the fuck?_

Matches smiles one of his slow, obvious smiles, those that give Jason an itch to kick his teeth in, and looks at him up and down exactly the same way, slow and obvious and pleased. It makes the annoyed sigh Jason bites back feel about five years too young, back when Matches' looks made him feel five years too old.

“You lookin' for something?”

It's almost exactly the same voice he used with Matches back then, defiant and too old for the too young it makes him feel.

It makes Matches' smile widen almost exactly the same way as well. Matches' teeth gleam around the match, and knowing _just_ how he'd go to kick his smile into a pearly fountain jerks Jason back; being thirteen and freshly armed with the most dangerous kicks in town. Standing in front of Matches and wondering how far Bruce would be willing to let him go. Or himself.

“Just happened by, kiddo.”

Matches slouches with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows raised over his sunglasses. It's an invitation to call him on his obvious bullshitting.

Jason's laugh rings a bit too harsh for their surroundings, and he leaves the dull shelf of laundry products and detergents behind, swaggering closer to Matches. “Yeah? I thought you'd be avoiding the area. Maybe get out of town. Your name's come up along with some pretty nasty business lately, I've heard.”

The fabric of Matches' suit creases up in exaggerated folds when he takes his hands from his pockets and spreads them out in a conciliatory gesture. His palms are turned up the whole time and his fingers splayed, and even if that doesn't mean much given the way Matches' cuffs fall over his wrists, it's something. Jason can see the precautions without taking his eyes from Bruce's – Matches' – face.

It's not Bruce laying the rules, he doesn't get to do that anymore, but it's Bruce dealing the hand. And Jason can play with that.

Jason tilts his head to the side and waits for Matches' drawl. “You got me, sweetheart. I heard you were around here and, well, it's been a while, hasn't it, kid? Wanted to _see_ you.”

His tone makes Jason thinks of syrup; sticky fingers and flatware at a diner. The cheap and dusty kind where Matches liked to buy Jay diner or coffee, and insisted that Jay finish with ice-cream. Jason always ordered Neapolitan, and licked the spoon clean with Matches' black glasses fixed on him.

The familiarity trips Jay with a spell of dizziness. He snorts, and Matches' fingers shudder.

“You're taking awful chances, old man.”

He starts again, because Matches' appreciation makes his skin itch, and when he's moving it's easier to ignore. Moving means getting closer to Matches, closer like it can make the itching go away, and past him and around in a circle.

The stick rolls from a corner of Matches' lazy smile to the other. He makes a show of watching Jason prowl – around Matches' reach, and Jay only comes to be abruptly aware of it when Matches' meets his eyes again.

Matches smiles like he wants to make Jay angry, so Jason only smirks back and flexes his arms to move the folds of his jacket in a way that makes it perfectly obvious that he's packing. Even if Matches won't be able to guess the kind of weapon, Jay likes rubbing his face in it. Jay's grown, now. Jay's dangerous. Matches isn't gonna play him quite so easy now.

The red point of the match juts up as Matches grins toothily. “Don't you worry, baby cheeks. I got my ways. Matches Malone is _all_ good.”

Matches is the only person Jason knows who can be so shameless with his double-entendres. Jay half laughs, half snorts, shakes his head and turns back to the shelf again. He gives the products a cursory glance and reaches for the cheapest bottle at the edge of what would be called Matches' personal space, if the man had any such thing.

“I wouldn't pick that if I were you,” Matches comments. “Bad quality for what you got. Here.”

He leans against Jason to grab the bottle he's pointing to, his arm and shoulder pushing against Jay's chest. He's always had nice muscles under the polyester, and Jay is pleased to realize they haven't grown any slacker in the years since they last did business.

He knows what Matches is doing; if he doesn't give Matches a clear answer, and maybe even then, soon Matches will abandon all pretense at ambiguity.

Jason doesn't push him away when he looks at the product Matches is holding in front of him, at hip level.

“That'll take care of your stuff, kiddo,” Matches assures. His left arm is slung over Jay's shoulders, and the rest of Matches is close enough for Jay to feel his warmth. Their hips are touching.

The knife's hilt presses into Jason's ribs when he takes the bottle Matches is presenting, his fingers closing over Matches' and turning the bottle up. It's a nice brand, its promises of softness and durability more valuable than Jay is used to.

“Yeah, and you see the tag?” Jay shrugs. “They only change the labels anyway. This shit's pretty much all the same.”

It's been years since Jason has had to shop for groceries, and he never used to be much good at it. Probably because shopping required spending money he didn't have. He was better at stealing.

He can't see Matches' expression when he answers. “Strapping lad like you, I'd have guessed you'd know the importance of taking care of your working tools.”

Matches' left hand casually slips down Jason's back, down to his buttocks, and fondles. Big hand, big palm closing on Jason's ass...

Jay tears himself from the older man. He's angry, not flushed, and if he's trembling a little, Jay would tell himself it's because things are different now and he doesn't want this and doesn't have to take this.

“I'm not selling to anyone.” _Anymore_ , Jay manages to swallow.

Matches' eyebrows arch in surprised innocence, and he holds his palms out again, his good will on display. He looks like a mafioso, opening his mouth shrewdly before dropping the tip of the match toward the pocket in which Jay keeps a too-long blade, even to go grocery shopping, but which could be a gun, for all Matches knows. “I didn't mean to imply—”

“'Sides, I thought I'd be too old for you now.”

Jason doesn't look up from the shelves when he speaks. The kris fits snugly between his arm and his side. He can't decide if a gun would be better.

Beside him, Matches' clothes rustle when he gets closer. The bottle is set back on the shelf with a tiny, plastic sound. Matches' never been much for silence, and that he restrains the noise only to his faint presence is a sign. His hand comes to rest on Jason's hip, molding over the top of Jason's ass. Comfortable, and intrusive, and familiar in all the ways Jason didn't expect Matches to admit.

“Not ever, Jay.” The murmur rumbles into Jay's ear, lower than Matches' flat intonations.

Jay stiffens for a moment, and the memories he tries to file away fly past him. Matches didn't make a habit of saying Jay's name. Jay didn't think Matches would remember.

Fuck, half the time Jay wasn't sure Matches had bothered to learn it, way back when Matches had info Jay needed and the way to get it was play Matches' game, let themselves pretend--

Matches' thumb is rubbing soothing circles in the small of Jay's back.

“Fuck you,” Jay retorts.

He tries to pull away, but Matches grabs his arm. It shouldn't be a relief to discover that Matches' hands stay big on Jason's newly grown-up body. And strong, like before he was the crook his clothes proclaim him to be he must've been in the same line of work as Jay, and he no longer is but he's still got the knowledge and reflexes that make a good enforcer.

“Aw, babe, now don't be like that...” The voice coaxes in a way that slipped from his touch.

If Jay was Red Hood, he'd cackle and dance out of Matches' grasp, but Matches wouldn't try anything on Red Hood. Matches wouldn't know Red Hood, and Jay doesn't have either a helmet under his arm or a domino in his pocket.

“I'm not a kid anymore.”

“Then there's nothing wrong with me doing this, is there, baby?” Matches' left hand snakes around to cup Jason's groin, and the right is still – stroking, petting, his hipbone and buttock.

Really _feeling_ him up, like he's feeling the differences with the last time they did this. Matches doesn't have to bend as much, for one, and he has to spread his arms more to drape over Jay, his chin hooked over Jay's shoulder and matchstick grazing close and amused against his jaw. Matches' suit brushes against Jason's back when Matches starts to massage Jay through his pants, slowly, carefully.

Careful to leave two inches between his body and Jay's back, so Jay can't rock back.

They're in the middle of a supermarket, and somehow it's always Jay's job to point that kind of thing out. Matches used to like him best when he was cocky and unruly and not holding much at all back. Called him all kinds of sweet things, called him a smart kid when Jay spit that he knew what Matches wanted, called him a good kid when Jay went with it, approving like his approval meant something.

And Jason's wanted this since the shadow descended on him.

And even as an enforcer, even as someone who _counts_ on some level in the streets, Jay is easy; Jason knows that much about himself.

Jay doesn't want to resist Matches' mustache scratching his jaw, Jay remembers squirming on Matches' lap while Matches jerked him off with a chuckle behind every murmured compliment. Jay has never washed Matches' touch from his skin. Not enough bad blood between them for that.

Jay was Matches' boy, Matches was _good_ , and Jay's easy.

He slumps back against Matches for a moment, presses himself against the length of Matches' body and rolls his shoulders back, lets his ass do the same.

Matches' got a _good_ body under that pimp reject suit, broad chest and all, and Jay doesn't get how he never realizes it except when Matches is flush against him, but the guy is _built_. Must've been something in his time, and there must be _nice_ things left. Jay promises himself that this time he'll get Matches out of the suit – if he's gonna fuck Matches Malone, it's going to be different from Matches playing with 'Jaybird'.

He knocks Matches' arms from around him and saunters away with a smirk over his shoulder. He makes himself younger for the time it takes to stare insolently at the glasses that blank out Matches' face, cocking a hip out in a come-on that was already a jibe when he was thirteen.

“So? You coming or you wanna die of old age?”

The match twitches in a smile. “You're not taking your detergent?”

“With a crook like _you_? I don't wanna worry that you're gonna steal it when I could be enjoying myself. _If_ you can get me to enjoy myself.” Jay arches his eyebrows – young and flirty and easy like Jason has only ever been with Matches. “Old man.”

The sliver of teeth gleaming under the neon lights slides a shiver down Jason's spine. “You're not too big to spank, kiddo.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “You wanna bend me over your knee, 'daddy'?”

His tone is unconcerned and spiteful, the tip of his tongue peeking from between his teeth. And he has to keep his eyes from narrowing, fuck, if he does he's gonna look either guarded or vicious, and he doesn't want Matches to react to that. Not when Matches could still walk away.

Matches pulls a face. Disappointed-- Matches never looked disappointed at Jay, _fuck_ \-- “Can't say I recall the effects ever lasting for long. If that's all you're offering, maybe we better call it off right away.”

And he steps away, the fucker actually has the nerve to take one step back, and when he does he pulls himself straighter, and _fuck_ \--

Jason can't stop his breath from faltering.

He _needs_ what Matches can give him-- No, fuck, he doesn't, not anymore. Jay doesn't need anything from Matches anymore, not as badly as Jason's (stupid, ingrained, Pavlovian) reaction says he does.

However, he doesn't have anything better to do and he's half-aroused, so he's willing to ignore the fact that Matches is being a bitch over historical accuracy. That doesn't matter as much to Jay and Matches as it does to Jason and--

The point is, Jay plays it cool. Snorts, drags his right hand down his chest and gives a good jerk with his hips as he grabs his cock through his pants. Tries not to pay attention to the polite approval of Matches' posture, pulls twice on his cock until Matches is leering again. Lets go once he's got Matches focused on him again.

“So, where to?”

The match in the man's mouth ruffles the edge of his mustache as he nips the end of it. He should say hotel room, and the bottom of Jason's stomach drops. Matches Malone _would_ say hotel room for a boy he wants to fuck, Jay's old enough now, he rates higher than the seat of a car.

They both know that Jason won't go for it. He won't trust that much the person behind those glasses.

Jason's fist clenches in anticipation of the punch. God, if the asshole doesn't work out a way for Matches to fuck Jason _stupid_ – yeah, he's just gonna have to find his release another way, isn't he?

“My car's just in the alley,” Matches says, mildly.

Jason rates the car, though. Jason _always_ rates the car, and the grin he aims at Matches feels more sincere and more of a lie than anything else that's gone between them tonight.

Still Bruce doesn't drop the mask, even with Jason all but jeering at him – it's all about plausible deniability, and Matches _could_ technically want the car for old times' sake – just advances on Jason with a lewd little grin and toward the stairs.

When Jay shrugs and swaggers into step next to him, Matches' hand falls on him, thoughtlessly possessive.

It swats his butt, then flies to rub his arm like they're just two good friends, clasps around Jay's elbow as they climb the stairs that take them back outside, clamps on his shoulder and strokes his neck, always there, always warm, always touching him a hundred different ways like it wants to test them all, remember them all, and can't decide on which to settle.

It's barely more than butterfly touches, and whether it's meant to or not, it's a tease that works to make Jay's entire body _aware_. Jason doesn't block him, even though Jay could avoid every strike, but he doesn't miss a chance to knock into Matches. Gooses him when the teases get too much – not enough – with enough strength that Matches wouldn't take it as encouragement if he wasn't a _freak_.

Jason's body is remembering as well, the touches of others interspersing Matches' gestures, a grip too harsh that makes Jason's next step bouncy like a full-bodied laugh, a caress stuttering before the whatever-it-was liquefies into Matches' obscene fondness, and Jason rocks straight into it, automatically demanding. Nothing Jason's going to acknowledge, but every hint of recognition sparks a tingle down his groin.

They turn the corner and Matches' car is just where he said it was.

The alley is narrow, half-obstructed with empty crates that lay a thicker coat of shadows over the alley's darkness. Jay is torn between grudging admiration for Matches' skills as a driver, that he managed to park somewhere half behind the crates, and the urge to throw his head back and laugh. In the end, he just struts past the man.

The car is black. Old, beaten down, dirty, and black.

Jason lets his upper lip curl. Loudly. “ _That_ your car? That's some hard times you've fallen on, old man.”

He reaches out to the car, languid as if he was going to run his hand on the hood and _sprawl_ or bend over, and-- doesn't. Stills his hand five inches away, hovering. Never been all that fond of the pin-up stuff. Not when he could do everything else. He telegraphs a vicious grin at the silent presence over his shoulder, the one Robin never had before him and which has _been_ Robin since the first time he made it.

“Your last ride was _much_ hotter,” Jason intones.

All snippy and going for the quick, take-em-down-take-em-out pain, too low for the jugular, behind the knees, low in the gut, and eager with why-don'tcha-just-try bursts of jubilation, well-timed on instinct and theatrics.

He's got the right tone, the right moves for what he wants, and he could stomp on that button until Bruce was left with no other choice but growl another name at him, until they'd have no choice but fight it out – Jason knows what this does to both of them.

Turns out he doesn't have to.

One minute Matches is over there, looking at Jay and chewing on his matchstick like he's picturing him posing or like he's about to backhand him for badmouthing his car, and the next he's right _here_ , big body pushing him against the car.

It startles a laugh out of him, Matches slides one hand under Jay's shirt, rubbing the small of his back, and the other skates over Jay's chest to his throat, big wide fingers on his pulse point. Jay's breath is shaky with bubbly laughter, and Matches has gotta feel that, can't not feel how _happy_ Jason is to be there. Matches grinds against him and god, god, he's hard.

“Fuck yeah,” Jason breathes.

“Growing up agreed with you, kiddo.” Matches' left hand is holding Jay's jaw in place, tipping his head back so he feels Matches' grunt brushing against his skin. The fingers of his right hand have curved under Jay's shirt, and he's stroking Jay's stomach, his chest, with the back of his palm. “You've always been gorgeous, but now...”

The words are thick in Matches' mouth, the matchstick is getting in the way. Jason shivers and rocks back. “You sure you're not – oh, yeah-- confusing me with someone else? 'Cause, uhhh, I've never been the pretty one.”

“ _Gorgeous_ ,” Matches repeats with a squeeze to Jason's cock – through his _pants_ , why are they still clothed? “Every time you're on the streets... like no-one can push you down, keep you down, you looked _so good_...”

Matches nudges a knee between Jay's legs and grinds, and Jay gasps, trapped against the car with Matches' hard-on against his ass, and _too many clothes_.

“God, Matches, fuck me,” and it's only not begging because Jay's voice is _strangled_.

There's no pressure on his throat but he's gulping for breath, and still gasping when Matches' weight disappears from his back and Matches' hands spin him around and back him against the car as easily as if Jay was still a scrappy kid that didn't come up to Matches' shoulder. Matches shouldn't be able to manhandle Jay so easily anymore, Jay's too big – as big as Matches lets himself appear, almost, and Matches does and can like it's something natural.

Jason's back arches when Matches drops to his knees, and his hands run up and down Jason's thighs, again, and again, insistent and relentless. Jason's skin burns with the need to feel it directly, the slightly painful pressure of Batman's gauntlets digging into his thighs, Batman mouthing the splatters of dried blood away-- and Jason's brain finally twigs that Jay's wearing Red Hood's pants, splattered with countless tiny droplets of blood, almost invisible to the untrained eye. It's why he was looking for a decent stain remover in the shop earlier.

“Oh god, B--”

He stuffs his own hand in his mouth before the whine is out and bites down, _hard_ , till he's aware again of Matches' garish suit, of Matches' bare hands hooking at the waistband of his pants and undoing the belt and zip. Matches ignores his most obvious reactions, the spasms in his thighs, the way Jason almost dropped the ball, and Jason is pathetically grateful.

Matches peels the pants off Jason's thighs, blocking his hips and pinning him to the hood.

“Nuh-uh, kiddo, not so fast. Be _patient_ ; I always tell you, _be patient_.”

Jason growls, thrusts again, more forcefully, and Matches' thumbs dig into the hollows next to his hipbones, _painfully_ – fuck, should Matches be able to do that? Almost _cheating_ , that's what it is, and Jason's got half a mind to say it, but that'd mean he'd have to stop biting his lip and then no more thumbs--

“You know, Jay,” Matches says conversationally, his breath a tease over Jason's erection, “I was expecting green.”

What. The.

Jason stares – glares – at the man kneeling in front of him, who is talking at Jason's cock as if _of course_ there's no reason why Jason _might_ perhaps flip at that kind of provocation.

Oh, _fucker_.

Matches never fucked Robin, never fucked Jason Todd either, the contrary son of billionaire Bruce Wayne slumming back to his roots, only had Jay, Jason, the Jason Jason used to play, one that never got to leave Crime Alley, and who found himself stretching his morals into viable flexibility to survive.

Matches doesn't _get_ to make that kind of comment, even, _especially_ if it makes Jason's cock shoot pre-come.

“ _Good_ , Jay, you're such a good kid...” Matches smudges the pre-come leaking from Jason's tip with his thumb, smiling crookedly and – he's lost the matchstick, and the smile's lost a lot of his Malone-ness with it.

Jason forces a derisive, clear laugh out of his chest – short and breathless and one that he's laughed too often for this man for the sudden quirk of Matches' lips to be simple.

“You were expecting _nothing_ ,” he informs, rotating his hips toward Matches' mouth.

Matches pats what he can reach of Jay's buttock that's not pressed against the car. “And that's what you're wearing under those skin-tight pants of yours. Don't I know you well, Jaybird?”

And yeah, he's got Jason feeling all of fifteen again, and just as big a stupid, angry slut as his encounters with Matches did back then. Jay grins bright and wide, grabs Matches' greasy hair and yanks until his neck is craned and his glasses looking at Jay, and demands, “Suck me.”

The smile crossing Matches' face does nothing to lull Jason's accusations of _fucking cheat_ , but then he opens his mouth and leans and takes Jay whole into _wet_ and _hot_ and--

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh, B-- ah!”

Hand fucking clutched on his balls, that makes him shove into Matches' mouth to escape the grip and Matches _pulls off_.

“Bastard,” Jason enunciates. Just let that asshole say something.

“Now, now, sweet cheeks, is that a way to call someone who's being nice to you?”

But the fingers start kneading his balls, and Matches puts his other arm across Jason's stomach, fucking _granite_ holding him in place, and no matter how much Jay wriggles, he doesn't get one inch more into Matches' slick mouth, _slick_ and tantalizing just around the head of his cock.

“More, fuck, _Matches_ ,” Jay whines, one hand on Matches' shoulder and the other on his head, and he _can't make him move_ , the guy's way too strong for who he's supposed to be, and Jay's left with the inefficient squirming of a horny kid. “C'm'on, man, suck me, fuckin' _tease_ , suck. Me.”

Matches doesn't bob his head down Jay's cock – his lips, his fucking _mustache_ are smeared with spit and pre-come, it's like torture how much Jay wants this on his dick and Matches won't give it to him. Instead, he slips his fingers behind Jay's balls and presses.

Jason bucks – forward, and backward, or-- he _tries_ to, but Matches isn't giving an inch – and _howls_. “ _Fuck!_ ”

He struggles again, but nothing. Matches' finger is a constant pressure on his prostate from the outside, and Matches' tongue is weighted down by the tip of Jay's dick, and... that's all Jason is getting. It doesn't stop him from trying to fuck himself one way or another, but aside from driving himself crazier, he achieves nothing except the mounting frustration that he's being “Matches”' personal source of amusement.

Oh _fuck_ no.

His cheeks blazing with arousal and anger, he knocks Matches' glasses away, and they hit the ground with a harmless tink. The man's eyes are the kind of blue you'd expect from glossy covers and gossip rags.

“What the fuck do I have to do to get you to fucking suck me?” Jay snarls.

Matches removes his mouth with a sound straight out from porn.

“You could try asking nicely, boyo.” His finger is rubbing slowly, oh so slowly, the spot behind Jason's balls.

It shocks an incredulous laugh out of Jason. “You want me to beg? That's what it's about? Fuck, Matches, I thought I'd blown you enough times that we're past that kinda game.”

The finger crooks approvingly; Jay hisses and his fingers curls on Matches' shoulders. “So whaddaya say?”

“Fuck you?”

Jay's suggestion loses some of its potency when Matches twists his fingers again – behind his balls and _over_ his balls – and Jason screams.

“You know me; I can keep this up the whole night and not get tired. You're a sight, baby, you're a real sight. But you?... Guess you can choose tonight to learn patience, after all,” Matches muses.

It's not a contest how the game's going to end; it's never cost Jason much to plead, not when it gets him _this_. Pride is what he feels for _accomplishing_ things.

But it's all part of the game, so Jay shakes his head.

“I'm-- oh, fuck – I'm not bored yet.”

Matches' blue eyes crinkle. He rakes a nail on Jason's balls. Jason's knees buckle, his head drops and his breathing turns shallow, and now he's actually grateful for the way Matches is holding him up.

“Fuck, Matches, please, please, please, suck me, please,” he's babbling, and there's that rumbling sound from Matches' chest that's Bruce's most common laugh, and Jason throws himself at him every way he can. “Fuck, yes, please, I need this, _please_...”

Matches' mouth finally engulfs him, and _sucks_ , and Jason can feel his brain being siphoned out from his cock and his eyes rolling back.

“Fuck,” he moans, too high and broken to even carry.

And then finally, _finally_ Matches removes his right arm from Jason's stomach and Jason can thrust forward – god he'd even stopped registering that he was so tense he was _quivering_ – and his hands are clutched in Bruce's methodically arranged hair and he can push forward and _yank_.

With every thrust he feels the back of Bruce's throat working against and around him, not gagging. It just makes him shove harder; he wants more than Bruce's contented groans, he wants Bruce to _choke_ on him. And the walls of Bruce's mouth are wrapped around him, closer and closer and _he_ 's close and getting closer--

And Bruce pinches the orgasm off at the base of his balls.

Jason's fingers clench and unclench, clumsy over Bruce's skull, and Jason blinks, jaw-slacked and suddenly owlish.

“ _The fuck?!_ ”

The only reason why Jason's not hitting him is that Bruce's teeth are dangerously around his cock. Even then, he's so pissed he has to take two breaths before his vision can focus. His body feels taut, on the verge of plummeting inward and shattering, hyper-aware and going numb. Bruce is smiling and Jason wants to rip Matches' silly little mustache off, to get Bruce to admit that he's fucking smiling at him--

Oh, yeah.

“Please, please, please let me come. Matches, please.”

Approval hums around Jason's cock and Bruce gives a good suck at the same time as he lets go of Jason's balls, and Jason comes so hard he can't even hear himself shout.

When he catches his breath back, Matches is lapping at his dick, one hand on Jason's thigh, with the knuckles of the other teasing Jason's hole with really the non-accidental sort of accidentally. Jason flexes the ring of muscles experimentally, pleased and sort of relieved when they obey him, clumsily rocking, or rather slumping, into it.

“Oh yeah, that's good,” he groans.

“Not out of commission yet?”

Jason's feeling indulgent. Really sweet orgasms will do that to a guy.

He maneuvers his body so he has one leg on each side of Matches, propping himself up against the car, arms all ready to give out and leave him toppling backward on the hood. Looks at Matches with heavy eyelids.

Bruce's cheeks are flushed. Molted, though the fake mustache still holds solid. Batman has access to the best equipment, and Jason spends a second to wish he'd had that quality of glue when he was a kid and the broken plates they put back together didn't last two weeks. His eyes – god, his eyes are the right blue. It warms Jason right up.

“You kidding, old man? If you don't fuck me I'm gonna think you made me waste my night.”

He wiggles his ass – it's about as close to coy as he ever gets – even though it's an effort to get the energy to do it convincingly and he's a lot closer to tottering that he'd like to. Matches only claimed to care about how tired he made Jay, but Bruce had those ideas about the state in which it was okay to leave Jason, and even after two years Jason didn't win every argument.

Lucky Bruce is clinging to his mask, or else he just doesn't give a damn about how sore Jason's going to be; the knuckles keep digging circles over and almost into the ring of muscles.

His head lolls back and he bites his lip a little, shifting. Nice and sensitive – Bruce teasing from the outside and it's been kind of a while...

In two minutes tops Jason's going to be begging for Bruce to fuck him and wish he could just impale himself on his cock.

Fuck, Bruce's gotta be _so hard_. In Matches' disgusting slacks.

“Get your ass out of this thing,” Jason demands.

The lack of glasses makes a difference when Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“But I put on your favorite, Jay baby,” he drawls, and oh, that's Bruce, that's Bruce all right. His left hand is running absently up and down Jason's thigh.

“I like your suits as much as I do _rabies_. Get the fuck _naked_ , I wanna see you.”

“Your favorite color, baby boy. And you liked the way the fabric rubbed against your skin, you wriggled more against me when I wore this one.” The thumb on Jason's thigh follows a scar; one of the newer set, gained in a place so far from Gotham it might as well not exist. “You've been doing it again tonight.”

It doesn't sound all like Matches.

Bruce holds Jason's gaze as he nudges just the tip of his finger in. Jason forces himself to _hold. Still._

 _Still_ , even when Bruce moves his finger so only the first knuckle is nestled inside him, hard and hot. The calluses on his digit scrape inside, catching Jason's breath on familiar whimpers, Jason's thighs jerking wider open and Jason's hips jerking into a rocking motion. Welcoming the touch back and not even bothering to pretend it hasn't been missed too long.

Jason can't stop himself, even when it's tapping right into the part of Jason's brain labeled _teases_ , or maybe, _invitations_.

“Don't pretend you ever gave a – ngh—”

Matches locks Jason's hips and calmly moves the tip of the second finger back against the first. Jason hisses through gritted teeth, through the sudden burn. “Fuckin' hope you – ugh – got lube,” he mumbles.

“I remember everything about you, son.”

A shiver breaks all over Jason, and B—Matches is still staring up at him, and moving his fingers just enough to remind Jason that they're there. His right thumb is ghosting behind his balls with the same pattern as his left is using over the scar.

Jason's getting hard again. Like a kid who doesn't have a say in it.

“Don't make shit up, old man, kids like me have always been thirteen a fucking dozen. Can't have been that hard finding a replacement. What, they don't make them dirty-mouthed enough for you anymore, in Gotham?” Jason bares his teeth, not caring that he's clenching around the fingers, not caring about whatever message Batman'd say he's sending. “Or maybe the one you found never let you fuck him. Kids are smarter these days.”

And Bruce looks at him. Looks at him. For one painful second he's not pretending to be a man who doesn't exist fucking the memory of a boy who never grew up, especially that way. Looks at him like— Jason's cock twitches.

Bruce slips out slowly, squeezing gently Jason's thigh like he's afraid of hurting him, a little like-- no, _exactly_ like he sometimes did, when they were in Bruce's bed and Jason had screamed himself raw. When there hadn't been an argument about how much Jason could take beforehand, but which Jason had won all the same.

“Jay... You're something else.”

No-one's as intense as Batman, except Bruce.

All that's on Jason, for Jason. Bruce is only touching Jason's thigh, palming the surface and feeling the moment, probably, when Jason just stops giving a damn about pretending.

Jason fumbles and works his pants down, tears the straps of his boots open so he can get wrest the pants _off_ as fast as possible. When Bruce's hand approaches and hovers like he wants to help, Jason growls warningly in his direction.

Then he settles back against the hood, bracing himself on his arms – and the metal under his ass is already warm from their activities – plants a stare into Bruce's really intensely blank eyes, and spreads his thighs as far as he can.

“God, just _fuck me_ already, will you? I don't care about-- do what you want, but _fuck me_.”

He glares at Bruce and wonders if he's going to have to finger himself, _again_ , for Bruce to _snap out of it_ , and it's only the heavy boots Jason strapped back on that tell him that they're not five years ago.

Suddenly Bruce moves too fast for Matches and too fast for himself, and he's against Jason and _on_ Jason, pushing him back down against the hood of the car. Growls against Jason's throat, seizes Jason's right thigh and hikes it up and spreads, and pushes two big, hard, slick fingers into him.

Jason _keens_ – doesn't question the slickness, must have missed that when he was getting rid of the relevant articles of clothing as fast as humanly possible, and fuck, why's Bruce still wearing Matches' suit?

His hips buck up, and up again when Bruce's fingers spear, and his arms scrabble for hold around Bruce's neck and his shoulders.

It's almost a shock to find out how easy it is to hold onto him now his limbs are long enough, but the thought is chased out of his head too swiftly, assimilated with the feel of Bruce's teeth scraping along his neck, and the electricity, not unpleasant, of the fabric crinkling between Bruce and Jason's skin, and Bruce's fingers.

“Oh, fuck...”

Jason's out of breath, thrilled and whimpering at Bruce's stretching. Slick and big and hard and it smarts in that really, really fucking _promising_ way and the idea had never crossed Jason's mind that he might one day be so glad he'd gone for so long without so much as a dildo up his ass. Makes a note not to repeat the experience, because what is he, _crazy_? Never again going so long without it.

“That feels so fucking good, harder, god...”

And Bruce obliges, or what they want just coincides, in any case Jason's all for it. His head thumps against the hood and he _wails_ \-- slick and hard and--

“You really _are_ prepared for everything, huh?”

Jason's laugh is cut off by Bruce kissing him, crushing the air out of his lungs, and that's okay, Jason's used to Bruce being the only air he can breathe. The palm of Bruce's other hand is holding Jason's face in place, his thumb huge and purposeful over his cheek while Bruce kisses him, like he's angry, like he wants to eat Jason alive, like Jason got too much blood on the costume and none of it was his own, like Jason's been asking for it.

He tastes himself in Bruce's mouth, and swings a leg over Bruce's ass and _rides_ him.

When Bruce breaks the kiss, Jason pulls him down again, light-headed, his attention split between the raging erection pressing against Bruce and Bruce's fingers twisting him from the inside and the abraded excitation over his entire body. His lips feel swollen, and there's a thread of spit between Bruce's mouth and his own. Jason passes his tongue across his lips. They feel like he'll be able to make a really _nice_ pout later.

“You know, I thought you were gonna do that thing with your mouth on my thighs, when you almost kiss-- you love my thighs—”

He yelps when Bruce's fingers shove all the way inside.

“I want to fuck you,” Bruce growls.

“Fuckin' _finally_ , B-- nng, oh, fuck _yes_.” Jason pants with his eyes closed, letting his hips rock with Bruce's fingers for the few moments it takes him to get his breath back.

When he opens his eyes, Bruce is staring at him. There's a small furrow creasing his brow.

Jason smiles. “C'mon, lose the suit.”

Bruce hesitates.

“I—I'm not sure getting naked in an alleyway in Gotham oughtta be advisable, baby boy.”

And see, Matches' fingers feel just as incredibly, mind-blowingly good as Bruce's, but Jason glares at him again.

God fuck he hates having to deal with this dumbshittery in the middle of the best fuck he's had since he came back, it takes braincells that just wanna go on vacation and cheer Bruce on like good little Robin cells, but _no_ Jason's gotta play into Bruce's qualms.

The only way to deal with those is to get Bruce to _pound_ him into them, until they've got Jason's shape and smell imprinted all over, and Bruce can't contemplate them without remembering _this_.

“I can't believe you're such a fucking coward. Just take it off, dumbfuck, you'll always stand out a fucking lot less more than in that fucking eyesore.” He tosses his chin challengingly. Pulls Talia's kris from his pocket and points it at Bruce. “Take it off, or I'm hacking it off.”

Matches – no, Bruce, Bruce, goddammit – just regards the weapon.

He has his fingers up Jason's ass and the lower half of Jason's body is doing whatever it pleases, shudders jolting up his stomach and chest when Matches brushes the good spot, and Jason's fingers are way too weak around the kris to do any good, and the fingers of his other hand convulse over Matches' suit at the same rhythm, but it's the-- not principle, but something. Principle of “ _God, Bruce, fuck me_ ”, maybe.

Bruce doesn't stutter, but it's one hell of a gratification that Jason sees his Adam apple bob before talking. Goes straight to Jason's cock. “Where'd you get your pretty toy, baby? It doesn't look Gotham made.”

Matches' left hand tightens over Jason's thigh for a moment before letting go, turning the stroke into-- a punishment or a hold, or just Bruce realizing he's been doing it, again. Slowly, Bruce lifts his hand to his collar, and-- Bruce's fingers are shaking. Jason's heart pounds fit to burst at the discovery, and it's his turn to swallow, now.

“T'was a gift.” His voice sounds younger, less sure, with Bruce undoing Matches' buttons.

He licks his lips. He's-- he's not actually sure he's capable of taking his eyes away from the skin appearing through the shirt's open collar.

Any stroller stupid enough to take a detour here would just have to deal, no way Jason's letting go for anything less than-- less than things Bruce's skin take his mind off from.

The dimness in the alleyway means he can't see everything, but his memory fills in the blanks; pale skin, full of scratchy hair and the _scars_ with which Bruce pays for Batman's wounds, mouth-wateringly _huge_ , and so godfucking _powerful_. Even when Jason just put his hands flat on Bruce's pecs, he could _feel_ it, the tension that Bruce can _aim_ at anything.

Jason's free hand crawls down the hood, fumbles before closing around his cock, starts moving with slow strokes.

The corner of Bruce's lips quirks under the mustache.

“I'm sure your good friend wouldn't want it to get lost. What say you, kiddo, about you putting it nicely away and helping me out of my clothes?”

Jason blinks, caught in the perfect pornography of Bruce's hands tugging Matches' shirt out of his slacks; the shirt opens more, and Jason wants to run his body on Bruce, map him the way Bruce did to him earlier, study the webbing of marks over the scars Jason knows. Relearn him the way he relearned Gotham, loving every second of it.

Bruce's fingers twitch inside Jason, and all over again what he's getting is exhilarating and unfailingly good and also a world of not enough.

“Yeah! Yeah, absolutely, c'mon, get here...” Jason props himself up on his elbows, and that means letting go of what he's holding. The knife skitters down the hood and oh fuck letting go of himself with a pathetic whine. “You better _hurry_.”

Then he scrambles to be more sitting than lounging, and hisses – Bruce doesn't reach as deep with this angle, and the amused quirk of his eyebrow at Jason's tentative, resentful jerk of the hips to test how much he's lost is _not helping_.

“This-- _off_ ,” he attacks the suit and the shirt and pushes it all out of the way, nails snagging on the fabric, as if it's personally offended him, and given how long they've dared hiding Bruce's body from him maybe they have.

“Off, off, fuckin' off,” he's chanting under his breath, roaming over the skin he's just exposed.

Bruce's muscles tense under his caresses, all hard and shivering, and god, Bruce is so _huge_ , and Bruce's breath shudders.

Jason's stomach clenches in sympathy and he jostles forward, rolling his hips so he sinks _on_ Bruce's fingers. He's panting too quickly, with small sounds garbled in his throat, his arms around Bruce's neck, too limp to do any good. Bruce's left arm supports him into an embrace that only just keeps Jason from liquefying.

He's-- not feeling Bruce close enough, the leather of his jacket too thick a shell for that, so he tugs on the jacket's cuffs. Bruce's hand helps him – gets in the way when Jason's focus slides from the jacket to the way-- Bruce is _petting_ him. Jason arches into it, and the jacket must have come off because he can feel each of Bruce's fingers as a distinct flare through his thinner shirt.

His hips are moving from side to side and the hood is kind of uncomfortable under his ass and he could _almost_ care if he wasn't fucking himself on Bruce's fingers, not a tenth as hard and as rough and as deep as he wants it. He can smell Bruce's sweat in his nose and his mouth, Bruce's hairs scratching his cheek, and he licks the skin he can reach.

“More, I want more of you...” His ramblings are muffled against Bruce's chest. “You're so fucking hot, I want you...”

Bruce's fingers crossing inside him wring a start out of him and a shout out of his lips.

“Fuck I've missed this so much...”

This time, when Bruce swallows, Jason can feel it, his cheek pressed to Bruce's chest.

“I don't wanna hurt you, baby.”

Jason just sighs a long, drawn-out moan. He's the furthest thing from _hurtable_ right now. He doesn't even know which _planet_ he's on.

“You're so tight, kiddo, I can't believe how tight you are...” Bruce's fingers part and spread to prove his point, making Jason's eyes cross and squeeze shut while Bruce gently, gently stretches him out. “When you disappeared I thought for sure you'd found yourself a new sugar daddy.”

Jason's nails try to dig into Bruce's shoulders, but he's slippery with sweat and Jason can't find a grip on him.

“No sugar daddies – fuck – no daddies at all – just – oh god, _please_ – just _you_.”

Bruce stills, not breathing. The respite means Jason makes the acquaintance of the maze of sizzling nerves that's taken over his body.

His body wants him to know that he should be _used_ ; his back remembers stone (mats, sheets, metal) pressing into it, his knees remember gravel, his throat pulses with the memory of bites, his chest warms under caresses a thousand times applied, his thighs part bonelessly with the pressure of unforgiving hands, tongue, hips, his toes curl as if expecting the boots to allow it, his arms contract, his lips mouth the shape of a man they can't name aloud.

That he should not be able to speak, to think, to _imagine_. That he should be loud and _choking_ , that his world should be an uninterrupted, instinctive flash of _yes_ and _more_ and _Bruce_.

That he's hungry, so hungry for it, he wants so badly to be full. Filled.

He's shivering uncontrollably, blinking to clear his head and panting, his hips moving, his muscles undulating around Bruce's fingers, which are--

Slipping out?

Bruce's nipple is one inch away from Jason's face, rising and falling with Bruce's ragged breathing, and Jason is _so fucking empty_. Rather than scream in frustration, he strains, tongue dancing over the hardening nipple, and latches down.

Bruce starts and Jason holds on through the feeling of _emptyemptyempty_ and he's thrashing and being shoved back down.

His skull bangs against the metal, and right now it feels _good_ , it feels _something_ , so he bangs his head back _again_ , desperate for the rush. He pounds the hood with his fists so hard he'll bruise even with the gauntlets – fuck, no, he's not wearing gauntlets – he doesn't even have gauntlets these days – arching and his spine's trying to snap, his legs kick out wildly, and-- his hips are grabbed and he's being shoved _into_.

“ _Yes_.”

And Jason's mouth is open and his breath gone, so he doesn't think of it at first.

“Yes,” Bruce breathes again.

Jason unscrunches his eyes to find Bruce looking down at him. He's braced with one elbow on each side of Jason's head, and so close, his mouth open and Jason can feel him breathe. In the sharp obscurity of the alley, Bruce's shoulders set out against the buildings, shiny with sweat. The disguise of ill-fitting clothes is nowhere in Jason's sight. Nowhere on Bruce.

“Yes,” Bruce says as he pushes into Jason. “Jay...”

Jason's legs wrap around Bruce's waist, taking Bruce deeper into him. Bruce fills him to the back of his _throat_ , dislodging all the rest on the way, throwing his breathing and his heartbeat. His lips pull back in a soundless laugh that bares all his teeth and feels _good_.

“Fuck this is good.”

Bruce pulling out drags back Jason's organs into their right – _wrong_ – place, and a groan out of Jason.

Then-- back _in_ , and Jason's panting, staring wide-eyed at Bruce biting his lip over him, at how his shoulders are trembling.

“Oh fuck. D-do that again.”

And Bruce does, still so slowly that Jason can feel every millimeter Bruce takes from him and gives him back, stretching him without a pause, in and out of him. More of the lube Jason was too out of it to watch for. It feels like it would start hurting any time Bruce forgets to check himself. Tomorrow this is going to smart like hell.

Jason is grinning.

He clenches the muscles of his ass, pumping. Bruce gasps, sending a puff of air tickling Jason's neck and chest, but he catches himself from slamming into Jason.

Who groans in disappointment.

He lets his head fall back, takes his time settling – as comfortably as he can with Bruce inside him, making everything _count_ like everything is Bruce – skimming down Bruce's chest to flick his nipples, rubbing gentle circles over the one he bit. Draws his legs higher around Bruce, and Bruce is barely moving, but the angle's better.

“Oh yeah, yeah, like that. Hnn. Harder.” He throws his hips, but his leverage isn't as good as earlier. “Fuck, harder.”

“Be. Patient.”

That's closer to Batman's voice than Bruce has been all night. Jason tweaks Bruce's nipples and squirms, and Bruce ruthlessly pins his hips to the hood, fingers squeezing the bone, punctuating his disapproval with a sharper snap of the hips.

Noisy, blind panting he revels in, the burn in his lungs an extension of the one in his ass.

“Huhh-- huhh--”

Licks his lips quickly and smirks up at Bruce's thunderous expression, removes his right hand from Bruce's pecs and lifts it to his own mouth.

Bruce's eyes follow the way Jason's index trails lightly over his lips.

His jaw sets hard and his eyes narrow like he's wearing the cowl and Robin's being just _brutal_ on the guy he's only supposed to subdue, until Robin catches Batman watching, and then his kicks and spins turn _purposeful_ , showing off how his muscles strain, how he can leap and bounce and fly through the fight, his feet touching the ground less often than they do the guys they're fighting; how he can crush a man's windpipe with a kick and not more than a glance.

Showy and graceful and dangerous, carelessly cruel as he turns the thugs he's battling into props of his showing off for Batman.

Batman watches, and Robin fires off Jason's machine gun laugh, mean and delighted.

Sometimes it made Batman grab Robin like Robin was really one of the little punks that swarm Gotham's alleys and croak from messing with business out of their league in a warehouse.

So long as Batman's not unleashing the voice – he has learned it just makes Jason run _hotter_ – or Bruce's not giving in, it's not good enough.

Jason slips the digit of his index between his lips, and into his mouth, making his lips into a perfect o, and sucks.

And the thing is, he's good at this, been good since before Bruce got his hands on him, and that must be one of the only skills Bruce didn't build in him from scratch or just about. And learning Bruce's – eh – tastes kind of wasn't the same thing as being _formed_ to them, even if sometimes Jason sort of felt like he _had_ been, anyway, usually when his lips were tingling and the stars from lack of oxygen were receding from the corner of his eyesight.

Bruce's face is shadowed, but Jason would've had to have never known Batman, and also to be _braindead_ , to believe that he's not staring at Jason's mouth.

Jason sucks, hard, as outrageously brazen as their current position allows. Moaning like bad porn and rolling his eyes back. Okay, so not as outrageous as he _could_ act, because if he moves it'll stop being a performance _fast_. But he sketches his intentions well enough that the corner of Bruce's lips constricts, and his fingers tighten over his hips. Which is-- it makes Jason bite his finger without meaning to.

So, because Jason's sarcasms can amuse Bruce but never do more than at best escalate the teases, he drops the act – he's never been helpless, he's never not known exactly what they were doing and what _that_ was doing to them, and he wasn't a child even if he was a kid. It's not that which Bruce's attracted to.

Bruce wraps his hand loosely around Jason's dick, making his hips work for a frantic second.

He locks his jaw and _glares_ at Bruce, and it's-- Robin looked at Batman only that way, toward the end.

 _Glaring_ , even when Batman had him spread over a gargoyle, punishing them both, and Jay wished for a limp all through the next day. Glaring and _smirking_ behind Jay's cheerfulness at breakfast, jeering victory when Bruce didn't look up from his newspaper.

It's the same now, even if his lashes are wet and his cheeks on fire.

“Jason,” Bruce moans and shoves into him.

The finger in Jason's mouth stifles the noise, his teeth gnashing at the same time as his back arches.

Bruce thrusts again, making Jason – that'd be a mewl if he wasn't shutting himself up on his own finger, and maybe he should get more fingers there, because Bruce is grunting. Bruce snatches Jason's right wrist and wrenches his hand out of his mouth, pinning Jason's wrist above his head.

“Jason,” and Jason tries to fling himself up at Bruce as completely as he can, “ _Jason_ , let-- let me hear you.”

It's like Bruce is _spanking_ him, every sound of Bruce's mouth thrills through him, makes him writhe. His right shoulder is burning, his left hand is scratching ineffectively at Bruce, sliding over the sweat on his back.

“God, god – uhh – Bruce, god, Bruce, _Bruce_ ,” Jason pleads, and he couldn't say what he's pleading for.

Bruce knows, of course, and Bruce gives it to him, plunging deeper, leaning over Jason to lick a wet stripe along his straining throat, with his tongue and his lips and his whole mouth.

Under Bruce's weight, Jason struggles to spread himself, twisting until the back of his thighs slap against Bruce's sides, sticky with sweat, reddening with the friction. There are stars prickling along his spine, bursting behind his eyes, shooting up his cock every time their bodies grind together.

“Uh, ngg, _Bruce_...” His ears are ringing and his throat dry, his voice thick.

Bruce's breath ghosts over Jason's jaw, mingling with Jason's pants, Jason's arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Jason,” Bruce whispers over Jason's mouth. “I missed you. Jason. Jay.”

“Yeah, I-- fuck, _Bruce_ \-- I get that.”

Jason's tongue flicks breathlessly out, to try and taste cool, and Bruce is so close that it drags against him amidst the shoves, catches him on his chin and on his lips, drawn back into an expression of animal need.

Touches Bruce's tongue, and they're kissing again, hard and dirty, Bruce's neck and shoulders tensing and coiling under Jason's arm, every time Bruce dives into Jason.

Their teeth clink together, lips and tongue sucking and stabbing, too hungry to get really deep. Bruce is fucking him too hard for the kiss to be anything other than messy, attempts to devour the life the other's mouth is feeding them. Half of Jason's obscenities spill into Bruce's mouth, a trade with the words Bruce's tongue spells.

Bruce is moving him with every thrust, Jason's ass lifting up and grinding down against the hood of the car, forcing Jason's spine into some of the flexibility Bruce trained so thoroughly into him.

They can't keep their mouths aligned long enough for the kiss to last, and when it's ripped from him Jason gasps out. It's one sensation – Bruce would say stimulus, but Bruce is too busy fucking Jason's name back into him and grunting it like it's the hottest, filthiest thing he's ever thought—

“Bruce--”

Jason, Bruce's hips slam into him.

It's one stimulus that kept Jay off the razor edge of pleasure-tease and—

“Ah, ah, I can't--”

Jason, Jay, “Jay,” Bruce prays into his eyes.

The electric pain of needing to _come_ \--

“Bruce – ah! -- fuck, Bruce – ngh -- ohgod – god Bruce I – fuck m-- uhhh, Bruce, harder god--”

“My Jason, my boy, my--” Bruce says, Bruce isn't listening--

And it's not words to Jason, but-- this is the bright, abject desperation that Bruce so rarely managed to make things – things like his control, like Jason – last long enough to get out of Jason. The pleading that actually _feels_ like pleading, powerlessness sobbing out for relief, swollen in Jason's numbed mouth and shameful, white-hot rage.

“Bruce god I swear – hn – I need--”

“Robin--”

Jason comes.

With a scream that claws through his chest to his fucking _balls_. The world blacks out around him and he's spending himself in long spurts that ache like kicks to the gut. For a moment it's like Bruce said; a patrol cut short and Batman's shadow covering Robin.

Bruce freezes, crushing his wrist and his hip, and a moment later the tension seeps out of his body.

“B-bruce,” Jason stutters, mind blown.

Gently, Bruce lets go of his wrist, shifting over Jason to cup his hand around Jason's nape. His fingers are trembling. The irregularity of his breathing alternately sends waves of hot and cold in the crook of Jason's neck.

The heat of their combined sweat is rapidly cooling. Jason's becoming more aware of the sharpness of the air than he's been for a while, but less so than he's aware of his body, and Bruce's still holding him down.

His legs are still clamped around Bruce; he unfolds them with a grimace – his joints all stiff and his muscles all limp, or the other way around – can't control their fall, and they flop back down too fast, untwisting the position of his lower body with sharp tremors.

He winces. Bruce is still inside him. He shows no sign of wanting to pull out, and...

Jason's aching all over like after the most satisfying patrols; the ones his body remembers through everything he got out of it, when his tiredness reflects how much he's accomplished during the night. Perfectly relaxed, Bruce resting his head on his shoulder, his heartbeat thrumming with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

This is familiar, and new.

His body doesn't fit with Bruce's the way it used to; he's grown, and in stillness their two adult shapes have to take the measure of each other. And they-- have. They fall into place before Jason has time to question it. Adjustment done without thought, and it could be practice paying off. And quietly flooding Jason, relieved amazement that they're already -- still -- so comfortable with one another.

He could get used to it.

Jason swallows. Goosebumps break over his skin that have far too little to do with the temperature in the alley.

None of this should've happened. Not with Bruce; he should have been happy enough with Matches Malone. He barely had to push to get Bruce to discard Matches' invasive persona. Just – how much more of a proof would he need to get that sex with Bruce was the worst possible impulse he could give into?

He puts both hands on Bruce's shoulders – clammy, and-- scarred in ways he doesn't remember, and still Jason knows the feel of them as well as he does the butt of a gun – pushes it all out of his mind as he pushes Bruce off.

For a second Bruce locks his shoulders, then relents. Makes himself relent. It's slow and aching, Jason's body as reluctant to let go as Bruce is. The blur of lust has dissipated, leaving only them, and the clogging sperm plastering Jason's shirt and rolling down his thighs. Jason feels groggy, his body tender with the promises of bruises, used. In a way, that feels more intimate than the sex.

It-- makes him color up, but he returns Bruce's stare anyway.

Bruce doesn't get to make him look away. Not anymore.

There's nothing here Jason won't own up. Nothing Jason wants to last.

When Bruce has moved off of him, he tries to hop down the hood of the car, and stumbles before catching himself. Odd, he'd thought the car was higher-- his knees are wobbly.

Bruce's eyes weight on him as he looks for his clothes. His pants lay in a tangle with Matches' jacket and shirt, along with a small tube of lube Bruce must have carried in Matches' pocket. His jacket's somehow ended on the other side of the car.

Jason turns away from Bruce as he gets dressed. He can't stand seeing Bruce watching him silently. Just knowing is bad enough. When he pulls on his pants, twisting to adjust the snug fit, the sting of pain shooting up his back makes him wince and brace against a vertigo. His legs-- he didn't wipe anything off, and now it's cold, gooey, all over him. Against him. He needs a fucking shower.

He collects the kris last. The twisted blade gleams dully among the dirty papers littering the alley, a small distance away. They must have kicked it during-- Bruce kicked it away while he was stripping.

“Jason.”

Swiveling back to face Bruce is easier than ignoring him. Easier to confront him than-- deal with the awkwardness, the-- whatever it is. Easier, better, natural, familiar.

“Don't,” Jason warns. “Don't fucking start.”

Bruce is--

Bruce is looking – _looking_ – at him. That's not anything Jason's unused to. Apparently getting looked at by Batman a lot isn't something you _forget_. Kind of like _riding Batman_ , if he's gotta go there. He'd rather not.

Jason's fingers constrict around the hilt of Talia's present, and he wishes for his helmet, or a domino. All he's got is the kris, and that's only slightly better than nothing at all. A gun would be better.

Still, he knows how to use everything he's got, so he puts the knife back into his pocket, making the jacket fall half-open when he does, poking his elbow out; making the motion stand out as much as he can. His shirt clinging to his chest is soiled with sweat and come, and the motion calls attention to that, too.

Bruce's eyes don't flick down, not even for a second, but there's such a thing as peripheral vision, and the set of his jaw tells Jason all he wants to know.

“This-- this doesn't change anything.” Holding Bruce's gaze is easy, confrontation's never been an effort for Jason. Keeping a steady voice is harder. Jason hates himself for having to try. “It doesn't change anything at all.”

Bruce doesn't try to detain him; Jason doesn't look for the trackers in front of him.


End file.
